


a body in the basement

by blookynaomi



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, I'm Sorry, Jealousy, Murder, Read at Your Own Risk, Self-Indulgent, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, this is so freaking messed up, yandere wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blookynaomi/pseuds/blookynaomi
Summary: You first see the trail of blood on your carpet, smeared as if something had been dragged through the room. You refuse to think of what it could be.The trail led toward the basement. The doorknob had blood on it.You should've called the cops.But you didn't. Because when you opened the door, it was Wilbur standing there. His hands were bloody, and the room smelt strongly of iron.Next to him, Eret's corpse.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot/Reader, Wilbur Soot/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

(TW: Graphic descriptions of violence.)

Wilbur eyed you subtly across the room, and watched as Eret put his hand on your shoulder. The gesture should've startled you, but it didn't. You almost seemed to like it, actually leaning into the touch.

He felt a tidal wave of emotions bear down upon him. Jealousy, hate, and something indescribable. However, he smiled and greeted everyone as if everything was fine. 

Yet beneath his manners and politeness, hid a wretched beast. It grew more frustrated with each day that passed, iching to break free of his skin. You trigger him so badly, somedays he just wished to put his full claim on you, show Eret who's the fucking boss.

Right now, he's seeing absolute red. His fingers twitch, aching to get hold around his pretty little neck. Maybe break one or two fingers, hear him scream. The more darker his thoughts got, the more he restrained himself from taking action. But the thought of Eret helpless to his mercy sent a dull roar of approval through his ears, one he couldn't stifle.

Fuck, he really should've taken his meds.

The rest of the party passed by in a blur of faces, champaigne glasses and laughter. You're dizzy but not quite wasted as you lean against his shoulder. Your red dress is hitched up a little too high for modesty, and he felt his breath quicken before he pulled it down.

He can smell him on you.

Even after the party, you go out to meet with him. Every night, you come back smelling like wine and cologne. He doesn't know what to do. He's going mad.

When confronted with his worries, you would always laugh it off. Say he was being silly. And he liked those little reassurances. They helped him see clearer until you went off again.

But the mounting tempo of his rage would never quiet down. Couldn't. He wanted to kill Eret for laying a hand on you, even after he claimed it with love bites after. It was driving him insane.

Then, one night you went out with your friends. Told him it was a girl's night out. He kissed you goodbye before you left. By then he had already started planning.

He rang up Eret, said he was lonely and needed a drink. The basement was already set up.

Like clockwork, he showed up at eleven, beer bottle in hand with a sympathetic expression. Fucking bastard. All he could hear was the tumultuos roaring in his ears as he knocked him unconscious.

Dragging him wasn't as easy as you'd think.

He tied him up on the chair, woke him up, and began his work. Eret's hands were the primary objective. To make sure he wouldn't lay a hand on you again, literally.

He hummed as he tore off his nail, resting them on the metal platter next to him. The pincers were already slich with blood. His screams of pain were music to his ears. By the time he had moved on to the next hand, Eret was almost unconscious. He wasn't going to allow him the pleasure of darkness.

He whispered soothing words as he pats his shoulder, cooing as he whimpered. "Oh Eret, you really should've seen this coming."

He didn't get to react before he sliced his hand off.

Blood. Pouring out from his hand as he picked it up, and waved it at him. Eret yelled and screamed as he looked at his decapitated hand He tried to touch his face with his hand, but he jerked away, almost knocking the chair over.

He frowned. Looks like the other hand would teach him a better lesson.

~0~

A small smile traced his lips as he viewed his masterpiece. Eret was barely recognisable, with half of his face torn off, handless, and feetless. And of course, with his member gone.

But then, he heard a blood curdling scream from the door. It's you. 

Before he can react, you run away, towards the door. His feet hammer the steps and he chased after you. You had a head start, but he was faster, stronger. Panic rose in him. What would you think of him now? Would you still love him? No, not the time for that. He had to catch you first.

Sure enough, he grabbed your waist just as you fling the door open. He cups of hand over your mouth as you screamed and struggled. But it's no use, and you know it too. Eventually, you resort to going limp in his hands, sobbing pathetically.

He cooed in your ear, tried to comfort you. He even brought you to the sofa where he spooned you, content. It's okay, he whispered, just pretend we don't have a body in the basement.

Fin.


	2. alternative ending 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would've happened if you didn't scream?

(TW: mild gore) (good ending)

You froze, not able to fully comphrehend the scene before you. 

There was _so much_ blood _everywhere_. It was as if someone had splattered the room with crimson paint. You nearly vomit as your senses were overwhelmed with the horrid stench.

What you heard next made your stomach drop.

It was Wilbur _laughing_. Not like the hearty chuckles you'd become so familiar with, instead it was low, sinister. A laugh of someone admiring their handiwork.

The powerful, primal urge to scream surges through you as you stumbled back from the door. There's cold sweat beading your brow as you begin to hyperventilate. You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle any noise you were making, trying to come up with a plan of action.

Get out. Your mind latched onto those words like a lifeline. Getting up on trembling legs, you're careful not to make too much noise. You knew this house like the back of your hand, so it wasn't too difficult even in your panic riddled state. Bursting into the night, you leap for your car, hitting the road at high speeds.

Time passes in a blur as you gun your car for all it's worth to the police station, while anxiously checking your rear view mirror. You get there in record time.

The aftermath is surreal. A dozen police cars outside of your house, watching a blanketed stretcher be carried onto the ambulance. But what's the most unreal is Wilbur himself.

Bloldied, handcuffed, yet still perfectly unruffled. Two men escort him out of the house, and his eyes meet yours. That same, calm gaze. You stare, confused and tired, as he mouths something.

You tremble as he's swept past you, but you still hear what he says.

"He got what was coming to him."

You crumple onto a heap on the streets, finally breaking down as you realized, you were responsible. Your fault. It takes hours, days to stop the tears. The grief for two loved ones. You're never going to forget what happened that night. But maybe, you can recover. Maybe you can find another lover who will help share your burden.

Maybe.


End file.
